Dear Santa,

Am I crazy for writing this? Am I exceedingly optimistic? Or hopeful? Or desperate? Or am I just naïve?

I don't know. But I know I'm lonely.

All the other soldiers in my tent, right now they're listening to mortar fire and writing letters home to their wives or husbands, girlfriends or boyfriends, or sons, or daughters, or mothers, fathers and friends.

And I'm writing to you.

Or maybe I'm just writing this to myself. As a ruse. A feint. A cover. To make it seem to the others that I do in fact have someone back home. Someone who loves me. Someone who cares for me.

Someone waiting for me.

And I guess it's so important that they see me that way. As a family man. As a man of faith and love and determination. They see me as a leader; not just as their First Sergeant but as a father figure. Because these soldiers... yes, they may be trained and smart and strong, but they're also just kids. Dumb, kind-hearted, bright-eyed kids who somehow still have some semblance of trust in humanity, and they're thousands of miles away from their loved ones and right now - right now - all they're thinking about is whether or not they're ever going to see those people again.

These kids--these brave, brave kids--well, they look up to me, you know? They see me as a man who's seen it all and lived to tell about it, and they see me as a man who can bring them safely back home.

What am I supposed to do? Tell them that I have no one to write to? That all my friends are either dead or in prison? That my mom hung herself when I was barely out of diapers and that the closest thing I had to a wife drank herself to death years ago? That my only son refuses to talk to me or leave a forwarding address or even refer to me as his dad? That the only thing I have back "home" is a crappy little apartment with a nice TV?

Well I can't. And I won't. Sometimes you just have to lie, and if that places me on the Naughty list, then fine, whatever. Because I doubt I've ever been on the Nice.

But tell me, if you are real, then what's it like? Not the reindeer or the elves or the sleigh or the whole flying around the world in a single night thing, but the children. What are the children like?

When you visit them by their beds, in their homes or huts or igloos or whatever, what are they like when they're asleep? Do they still dream?

Because when I'm home and I look at the children around me, it seems that our kids are all too damn preoccupied with their cell phones and iPods and computers and Nintendos and anime and Blackberries or Blueberries or whatever the hell those things are called, and I wonder if these kids still know what it is to dream of something, to wish for something, to  fight for that something.

And it scares me to think that I don't want to know what the answer is to that question, because I already have this gut feeling that I do. Because out here, on these sands, sometimes the only thing that keeps me going is the knowledge that we're doing it for them.

Because they deserve it.

They deserve a better world.

Right?

I walk through ruined streets and bombed homes and wonder what the children in those houses dream of at night, what they wish for, and I get so terrified and ashamed that I have to believe that there's a reason for all this. I have to. Because I don't want to live like this for one more single solitary second.

Heh. You know something? The more I write this, the less it seems like a stupid idea. Who knows? Maybe you really are real. Maybe Jesus really was born on the 25th. Maybe there really is a Reason for the Season.

And maybe I really will send this.

I don't know what Christmas really means, and the only time I ever use the word God is when it's immediately followed by the word damn, but every year I still sit down to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, and every year I listen to that little jazz number and every year I watch Linus tell Charlie Brown all about how beautiful it is to celebrate the holidays and every year, if even for just a second, I'm a kid again. True, it wasn't the best childhood, but even still, every year I still dare to hope that we're all going to turn out alright, and that everything is going to be okay.

A part of me still keeps the faith, you know? A part of me still believes in you.

And a part of me is still waiting for Battleship.

You know, I think I was nine when I first wrote to you, asking for the game. It was all I wanted. Something I could play with my dad. Something to help us bond. Something to keep us together.

You never sent it, though. I guess I thought it was because I had been Naughty, even though I always tried to be the best son ever, if even just to keep my dad from leaving again.

Then when I was thirteen, I finally got the game. It was addressed from the North Pole. But, then again, that was also the same year my dad finally fled to Cuba (which thankfully still has no extradition treaty), and unless your real name is San Nicolás, I highly doubt you would have given a young boy in Wisconsin a present wrapped in holiday paper that  had Felis Navidad! printed all over it.

But I forgive you that, you know? I do. Life's too short to hold a grudge, and maybe this year you'll finally come around to reading my letter.

As I'm writing this, most of the soldiers are going to bed. Some are still up. They're whispering to one another and cracking dirty jokes and goofing off and making asses of themselves. But I look at these kids, and I know at least one of them is going to sleep with visions of sugarplums dancing over their  heads. At least one of these highly-trained killing machines is still going to believe in miracles. And all the little shit that goes with it like truth and honesty and sacrifice and togetherness and love. And love.

Especially love.

And that alone is enough to sweep me along in its wake.

So maybe I really do believe or maybe I'm just fooling myself. Maybe I've finally seen the light or maybe I just finally lost it. But mainly I'm just desperate enough to dare to dream again, and because Linus Van Pelt is one adorable little bastard. But for whatever reason, for the first time in a long time, I'm sending you my Wish List:

1. Peace on Earth, and

2. Goodwill to Man.

I know it's going to be hard to stuff those in a sack, so if it's too tall an order for you, I understand. And I'd settle for a smoke, a beer, and a ticket home.

Wherever that is.

Merry Christmas, you jolly bastard.

Love,
**** (I figure if you really are real, then you'll know who sent this)

P.S. If it's too hard to find the original, non-electronic version of the game, then I hear that eBay's a great place to look.